Marriage By Arrangement (11 page)

After thrusting her goose-bumped arms inside the sleeves of his jacket, she remained a step or two in front of him as she all but ran back to the beckoning lights of the castle. When the lilting sounds of music wafted through the misty air, she did begin running.

He took her cold hand in his hot one, and raced with her.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She dare not remove her hand or do anything else that might send Cailin’s husband back over the brink. Her tattered dress fluttered in the wind, exposing ankles and legs a brother-in-law should never see.

Somehow she’d have to detour far enough to enter near the back staircase. She’d not like to be seen by anyone in her present state—especially not alone with Lord Avondale.

The same thought seemed to have occurred to him.

“Um, Fiona. The back staircase, don’t you think?”

She nodded, gasping for air.

He wasn’t even breathless. Physically, the man was in better condition than she could have guessed. Mentally, she feared he would again exit the world of the sane at any second.

“Aye. The back entrance.” Certainly she’d never heard of Bloody Billy, nor of any attempt to take her by force from the castle.

She rushed under the back porte-cochere and winced as one of her wet feet slipped on the rounded cobblestones, bruising her instep.

His strong hand holding hers kept her from falling.

A hysterical laugh worked up into her throat. Now her kidnapper helped her. What would he do next? Had he really thought he was saving her?

A wave of compassion for Cailin smothered the nervous laugh. Cailin had wed a madman. And God allowed it. Cailin, who trusted God so totally and completely. Fiona shook her head. She would never understand God’s ways.

Just as they reached the wooden door, heavy, uneven footsteps echoed through the mist.

Fiona glanced over her shoulder.

Hennings stumbled over to them. Obviously the big valet had been deep into his cups. Still, he lurched their way with obvious intent to intercept them.

Lord Avondale stopped. “Oh, I say, Hennings, you’re just the fellow I need. Fiona has taken a nasty tumble. Will you be so kind as to see to her welfare?”

The burly valet skidded to a halt inches from Lord Avondale’s outstretched hand. The alcoholic stench of the servant’s breath scalded her nose. Lurching like a sailboat luffing under a badly trimmed sail, the tall man managed an awkward bow.

“Not so, Milord. The dowager gave strict orders I was not to let you out of my sight. Nor will I.”

He’d arrived a trifle late for that.

Fiona clamped her lips to shut off harsh words. She jerked her hand free from Lord Avondale’s. So, Avondale’s ma had assigned the valet as a bodyguard for her son. Did the old woman fear for his safety or was she concerned about what her son might do to someone else? Did she know he recalled nothing of his actions?

Either way, she agreed with the dowager. Lord Avondale needed a watchdog. His Grace had to be kept on a leash. Or better yet, a chain. The man was surprisingly strong.

“Lovely, Hennings. Do stay on top of your duty.” Fiona hoped the edge in her voice made its way through the man’s alcoholic fog. The odor of Scotch on his breath churned her stomach. Still, she could not have been happier to see the man. “I turn Lord Avondale over to your care.”

She just wanted to escape.

She unlatched the heavy door. She’d have a private chat with Cailin. Who knew what other secrets her sister-in-law kept? She hesitated. She certainly didn’t want Lord Avondale climbing the dark staircase with her. His black mood might return. And Hennings was drunk. She had no desire to walk the back hallways with two such unstable men.

She suppressed a shiver.

Englishmen. Why had God made so many of them? Of what use were they?

“Um, Hennings, I suggest you take Lord Avondale up the side staircase. It’s not seemly for the two of us to be seen together when we’re in such a state.”

Hennings’ mouth dropped as he apparently noticed that beneath Lord Avondale’s coat, her gown was torn.

“Yes, Milady.” He swung his gaze back and forth between Lord Avondale and her, looking so much like a bewildered bull that she wanted to shake the man.

“See to your duty.” She didn’t relish standing with these two men, her back to the dark, misty forest, and her bare feet on the cold step to the dark rear entrance to the castle. She didn’t trust either of them. She put a tart edge to her voice. “Immediately, Hennings.”

“Yes, Milady.” The broad-shouldered man smacked a hand against the small of Lord Avondale’s waist-coated back. The servant and the still bewildered, but compliant, lord lumbered down the cobblestones to the side entrance.

Avondale’s voice carried clearly through the darkness. “I’ve had responsibility drilled into me from birth. A boy trained to be a duke does not cry for any reason. Not when he is beaten, not for love. He does not play with children of common rank, no matter how lonely. He must excel at studies and never shirk duty. Never complain, never apologize, and must take upon himself an arranged marriage. He must only choose companions from the select. He must learn detachment and obedience rather than rebellion. It’s all so accursedly cursed.” He groaned. “Somehow I think I failed my duty just now.”

Strange, what things haunted the duke. She would never have guessed.

The mumble of male voices and footsteps grew faint as the two disappeared around the corner of a turret.

She pulled in a deep breath and shivered.

Thank you, my Father, for protecting me.

She hugged chilled arms to her chest.

Hennings wasn’t known as a gossip, but what he’d witnessed might start his tongue wagging if she didn’t take steps to prevent it. She sighed.

With the danger past, her legs were watery porridge, and she shook all over. Stiffening her knees, she pushed open the heavy, iron-bound door.

She’d carry her dagger from now on. And she’d have to tell Cailin.

14

Cailin tossed her golden mask onto the beverage table, picked up a stemmed glass of punch, gulped it, and slammed the empty glass back on the white tablecloth. She felt like screaming. Instead, hands clenched, she gazed around the lofty, tastefully decorated ballroom. Everyone else danced gaily with a partner.

Where was Avondale? How was she to hold this marriage together if he continued to disappear?

She had asked God to keep Avondale by her side through the festivities. And He had failed her. Fighting off a sense of despair, she forced herself to smile at the many nobles bowing and acknowledging her presence as they escorted their partners to the food and beverage table. Why had God denied her when she had obeyed Him and her parents with this marriage? God blessed obedience, didn’t He? If so, why had He given her such a difficult husband?

Here she stood, wearing the most fabulous gown she’d ever owned, its billowing gold hooped skirts caught halfway up with large velvet bows above scalloped lace, and her golden curls falling in ringlets almost to her waist. In the place of prominence as befitted her husband’s rank, she, amidst all the couples, stood alone.

She unfurled her fan and used its folds to hide her trembling lips. She would not cry. Tears closed her throat and pricked behind her eyes. She blinked rapidly and performed a curtsy to the Marquess and Marchioness of Tullibardine. As the couple danced beyond her hearing, they put their heads together and whispered. She cared not a fig about their gossip. She simply wanted her husband by her side. Proving his love. Showing his protection.

She wanted Avondale out of trouble, normal, and resplendent as only he could be. She wanted a kind, sensitive husband, a loving father for their child. She wanted him as attentive in public as he was in private. Was that too much to ask?

Her shoulders shook. A sob worked up through her laced bodice to the ruffles cupping her shoulders. No, this would not do. She sniffed and straightened her shoulders.

Every other person in the room looked so happy, dancing in the circle of a loved one’s arms or paired together, chatting intimately. Why not she? The headache that had threatened grew into full-blown misery. Sidestepping into the shadow of a white pillar, she massaged her temples.

Why didn’t God answer her prayer? He seemed deaf to her pleading. She believed in Him with all her heart and obeyed Him in every way she knew. She gave money to the poor beggars who showed their licenses at the castle’s kitchen. She loved her fellow men and God with all her heart.

So, why didn’t God love her back? Surely He knew that for the first time in her life, she wavered in her solid faith? Why didn’t He answer her prayers? What had she done to deserve His silence?

Aware of her many noble guests, she smoothed her expression, warmed her smile, and forced herself to remain cordial.

For what seemed hours she played the part as best she could, upholding the gaiety of the party and honoring Fiona’s debut. She set her mind to focus on Fiona’s happiness, but the lass had also disappeared. Anxiety built inside Cailin’s chest. She had to find Avondale.

Finally, she said her farewells to those guests close enough to the castle to return to their own homes.

Then she, Mums, and Aunty Moira escorted those guests who were staying overnight to their suites. At last, her duty accomplished, she hugged Mums and Aunty Moira, not wanting to share with them her anxiety, and went in search of Avondale.

She prayed the burly servant, Rafe, would prove to be an excellent bodyguard. She’d chosen the big Scot because the man had muscle and barely spoke. She didn’t want Rafe bandying her dirty linen to public view and felt certain he would not.

But perhaps Avondale had escaped Rafe’s supervision. Otherwise, Rafe certainly would have herded her wandering husband back into the ballroom to attend to his guests.

How could Avondale, so handsome and desirable, be so unreliable? When he was present, he looked the pillar of strength and stability.

She left the ballroom and stood at the front door where the final guests were taking their leave.

A young man in a shepherd’s simple costume approached.

“I say, Duchess. Your little cousin Fiona is a bit of all right. Where have you hidden the young lady? I wanted to make my adieus personally.”

She smiled with real warmth. “Ah, Lord Montrose. Fiona is around somewhere. Surely, you’re more acquainted with her movements than I.” She had a warm spot for the young Marquess.

His mums and hers were great friends, and she and Megan had grown up playing with Charles and his older siblings. She sighed. Too bad Charles hadn’t been old enough to wed her.

But he’d make a fine husband for Fiona. And from his disappointed expression at missing her, he appeared to think so as well.

She fanned her hot face at the disloyal thought of preferring to have wed someone else. At times Avondale embodied everything she’d ever dreamed of in a husband. She bit her lip. But those times proved precious few.

“Well, yes. I had my eyes on Fiona all evening. That is, until Lady Megan needed to speak to her so urgently. I’ve not seen a spot of her since. That was…” The young man pulled an elegant gold pocket watch from behind his shepherd’s pelt, “…almost an hour past.”

“Ah, well. Fiona’s quite young. She and Megan have probably gone to rest.” So, Megan had taken Fiona somewhere. What was Megan up to this time? Had she taken Fiona to nurse Brody?

Disappointment clouded the young lord’s pleasant face. “My parents insist the hour is late and we leave at once. Pray give the Lady Fiona my farewell.”

“I shall, Charles. And I’ll extend an open invitation to you and your family to visit us often. Mistress Fiona dotes on your company.”

The young man straightened his shoulders and fairly glowed. He tripped over his feet as he bowed over her outstretched hand. “Thank you, Duchess. My family and I gladly accept your kind invitation.” His large hazel eyes gazed at her above her hand which he still pressed to his lips. Then he raised his head. “I shall come often.”

“I fear there will be a regular parade of young noblemen to our door.” She touched his pelt-covered arm. “There seems to be a new breed of catnip here that brings all the noble Toms in the countryside.”

“Catnip indeed! But Mistress Fiona did ask you to invite me specifically, did she not?” Young Charles’s face hovered between hopefulness and chagrin.

“She did.” The lie flowed easily from her tongue. Was a white lie acceptable to God? She didn’t know. But at the moment, she felt far from happy with God, anyway. The thought amazed her. Never before in her life had she been unhappy with God.

Forgive me, Father.

Nevertheless, her usual calm trust didn’t return. Would she spend her life at social events covering for her husband? Was her marriage to echo her parents’ relationship despite her best efforts? Would she and Avondale become truly distant and hateful to one another? Now that she stood likely to give him an heir, would he take a mistress and move to one of his other estates?

She tapped her foot as she waited for Charles to join the last of the departing guests, and then rushed to the servants’ part of the castle.

The kitchen where the help congregated fermented in an uproar. Glasses, filled and empty, showed the servants had celebrated and were yet frolicking. Some wore make-shift costumes. Many looked red-faced and were acting free with one another, obviously well into their cups.

When she entered, the cavernous kitchen grew quiet. The bevy of servants snapped to attention.

“I’m seeking Hennings.”

“Ah, Your Grace, Hennings was here up until…?” His brows arched, the head butler gazed at the other servants.

“Hennings left about an hour past, Milady.” The big cook dipped her cheerful face respectfully. “He seemed in a bit of a hurry, he was.”

A cold chill shot down Cailin’s backbone. Her voice quivered. “And how long did he tarry in the kitchen before he left?”

The dusting maid dropped a slight curtsy. “Your Grace, Hennings, he stayed here in the kitchen for the best part of the evening. Then Rafe rushed in and hurried him out.”